An ode to the cold

Cold is having the same lunch five days in a row so you don't have to walk across the grocery store parking lot.

Cold is not being able to eat cold food unless you are really warm.

Cold is declining invitations to drive 20 miles in the country because you remember when your car died in the cold.

Cold is keeping the house darker, and the curtains and shades drawn in some rooms, because you can feel the cold air coming in just standing next to a window.

Cold is letting the dog out and standing by the door because he will be back in less than a minute.

Cold is being glad you are not a dog.

Cold is thinking about your car more; where you park outside work; thinking about starting it over lunch, thinking about starting it before you leave work.

Cold is seeing the sheen on the road at night and slowing down by taking your foot off the gas instead of using the brakes.

Cold is waiting in a line outside and doing the cold dance: stamping your feet, jumping up and down, moving fingers in mittened hands, and adjusting your hat over your ears.

Cold is passing people doing the cold dance and thinking, "They must be cold." Not thinking, "There is something wrong with that."

Cold is not talking to your neighbors outside unless you are giving them a hand shoveling snow.

Cold is talking to people through a scarf. And not caring if they don't hear every word.

Cold is enjoying blankets ... anytime.

Cold is looking forward, more than in any other season, to going home. Because family is warm and it's warm there and it has comfortable chairs.

Cold is telling yourself you are not going to talk about the cold — and failing, a lot.